The Election (4 page)

Jedediah McClellan was an imposing African American, six-feet-four and muscular. His large hand, calloused from years of manual labor, engulfed Jake's when they shook hands. Jed was already dressed for his job at the Delta Faucet plant east of town. He wore the company-issued navy blue shirt with a patch bearing his name over the pocket, matching pants, and brown, steel-toed work boots.

Jake knew Jed had played high-school football in Jackson because some of the local die-hard football fans still talked about the catch Jed made to defeat rival Marshall County High School for the conference championship. Jed had blown his knee out his freshman year at the University of Mississippi, so he'd become disposable. He returned to Jackson without completing a college education and began working at one of the local plants. That was almost eleven years ago.

“How are Ruth and the kids?” Jake asked as they entered his office. He removed a stack of manila file folders from one of the chairs.

“They're fine.” Jed sat in the now-vacant seat. “But this thing with Jesse Thompson's got me and Ruth down.”

When Jake saw the angry flush in Jed's light-brown complexion at just the mention of Jesse Thompson's name, he prodded Jed to tell him the whole story. Jed began by explaining how he had inherited his grandfather's house after the old man's death. Then, several years ago, Jed needed $10,000 and went to First National Bank for a loan. Mr. Thompson said he was glad to help him and asked if he had any collateral. Sure, Jed said, and he told the banker about the house. Mr. Thompson asked Jed to sign a few papers and then gave Jed the money. Jed didn't know what he was signing. He never read the papers. Ever since then he had been making payments on the loan. But this past spring he'd been out of work for a couple of months and got behind.

“If you missed some payments, then the bank has a right to foreclose,” Jake commented matter-of-factly.

“What he's doin' ain't right, and you know it. I swear I didn't know what I was signin'.” Jed pounded his right fist into his left hand.

Was Jed's anger directed at Jesse Thompson or at himself? Jake wondered.

He listened as Jed talked about his family and where they would go if they lost their home. He didn't have the money to pay Thompson to stop the foreclosure, and he couldn't borrow it from any of his family. He couldn't afford to rent because that would be more than his payment to the bank, and he refused to consider taking his family to a shelter. When Jed's voice began to crack, he paused to gather himself before continuing.

“Anyway, it was my grandaddy's house, and I ain't lettin' Jesse Thompson get it.” Tears welled up in the big man's eyes. He repeatedly wiped them, but several managed to escape down his cheeks.

Jake sat silently, watching Jed. Jake knew he couldn't stop what Jesse Thompson was going to do: foreclose on Jed's house. It may not be right, but it was legal. And nothing was going to change that.

“What do you want me to do?” asked Jake.

“I want you to sue him for me, that's what. He's committin' fraud, or somethin', and I know he can't get away with that.”

Jake sighed inwardly.
How are you going to get out of this one?
he asked himself. He couldn't sue Jesse Thompson or First National Bank. Jesse had too much influence in town, not to mention money. The man could easily ruin a lawyer's reputation.

“How do you plan on paying me, Jed? It's going to take a sizeable retainer for me to get involved in this mess.”

Jed's eyes narrowed. “How much you talkin' about?”

“Five thousand dollars.”

“C'mon Jake, you know I ain't got that kinda money. Can't you get your money from Thompson when we win? 'Cause I know we're gonna win.”

“Even if you win, I don't think the court is going to make Jesse pay my fee,” Jake said in a calm tone.

“If you won't help me, and the law won't help me,” Jed announced, his voice rising, “then I'll have to handle things my own way.” The muscles on the sides of his face flexed as he gritted his teeth and clenched his fist. “I know where he lives, and if I have to kill him, I will. I'd rather go to jail than let him get away with this.”

“Jed, don't talk like that. Someone other than me might hear you, and I know you don't mean it.”

“I do too. He ain't gettin' away with this.”

Jake knew that Jed could kill Jesse Thompson if he really wanted to. Jed had a history of violence. He had been in a brawl several years ago at the Bad Dog Saloon, where he broke the jaw of a man who was flirting with his wife. Witnesses said that if a couple of men had not held Jed back, he would have killed the guy.

Jake surrendered. “All right, Jed. I'll call Jesse and talk to him. I'm not promising anything, but I'll see if I can convince him to stop the foreclosure. When is it scheduled?”

“Wednesday at noon.”

Jake wrote
Jed—foreclosure on Wednesday
on a yellow legal pad so he would remember to call Jesse Thompson later that day. He didn't know what good it would do, since Jesse was known for playing hardball. But then at least Jake could tell Jed that he'd tried.

“Thanks a lot, man.” Jed stood up. “I knew you'd help me.”

“Don't thank me yet. I haven't done anything. I'll call you when I hear something.”

After Jake escorted Jed to the front door, said good-bye, and retreated to his office, Madge informed him that Bob Whitfield was on the phone for him. Jake litigated against most of the insurance defense lawyers in town, and Bob was the epitome of his breed—the man probably billed his clients more hours than any other lawyer in Jackson. But he also had the gift of convincing them it was for their own good. Bob never settled a case until the day before trial. Jake currently had only one case with Bob—
Lillian Scott v. Taylor Trucking
—so Bob had to be calling about that.

Jake had agreed to the representation because Lillian Scott was a single mother of two kids and only in her midthirties. She had become disabled when an eighteen-wheeler had run a traffic light and broadsided her car. She had missed three months of work recuperating, and her medical expenses were well in excess of $35,000. Her case was set for a jury trial next week.

“Bob,” Jake said as he answered the phone. “Good morning.”

“Good morning, Jake,” came the bland reply. “I want to talk to you about this Scott case. It's set for trial next week, and my client is interested in settling.”

Jake knew it was too early for Bob to be offering to settle. The trial was still eight days away. That could only mean that Bob's client was pushing to settle before incurring additional fees in final trial preparation.

“I'm not sure Ms. Scott wants to settle,” Jake said.

The first rule in settlement negotiations was to never let your opponent know you want to settle. The second rule was to remind them how good your case is. And that's what Jake proceeded to do.

“Dr. Jones testified in his deposition that Ms. Scott has a 28 percent permanent disability to her right leg and may never be able to walk without a cane. She's incurred thirty-five thousand dollars in medical expenses and another ten thousand in lost income. Your client doesn't have enough money to settle this case.”

“My client is prepared to make a very reasonable offer,” Bob replied. “Of course, your client will have to release my client from any further liability.”

“Like I said, I'm not sure Ms. Scott wants to settle, but tell me the offer, and I will talk with her about it.”

“I have been authorized to offer one hundred fifty thousand dollars for a full compromise and settlement of Ms. Scott's claim,” Bob responded in his best defense-lawyer voice.

A hundred fifty thousand!
Jake screamed in his mind. “You know I cannot recommend that offer to my client. It's way too low.”

The third rule was to never take the first offer.

“That's all I've got, Jake. Talk to your client, and get back to me before lunch on Wednesday,” Bob requested. “After that the offer will be withdrawn.”

“I'll talk to her and call you back. 'Bye, Bob.”

“Good-bye.”

Jake hung up and leaned back in his chair. He smiled with satisfaction as he thought about a big payday just around the corner. He pressed the intercom button.

“Yes,” came Madge's voice in response.

“Get Ms. Scott on the phone for me.”

In the chaos of the day, while handling the details for Lillian Scott and several other clients, Jake forgot all about his promise to Jed McClellan.

Miami International Airport

The Monday 10:00 a.m. flight from Cancun, Mexico, taxied to a stop at gate T-15. The passengers on board reluctantly began to disembark. They slowly made their way up the Jetway and into the concourse that led to the customs gate and the remainder of the airport. Their sunburned skin couldn't hide the displeasure on their faces as reality set in that their Caribbean frolic was over.

The female U.S. customs agent who worked the morning shift had seen the same expressions of shock a thousand times. Most of the passengers were honeymooners or couples returning from a romantic rendezvous. She knew that by tomorrow they would be back to their mundane lives and boring jobs. The cool ocean breezes, sun-drenched beaches, and drinks with little umbrellas would become a distant memory. Only the honeymooners would keep the spark that came with the romantic getaway, but just for a few more months. After that they, too, would fall into a regular routine, and the spontaneity would disappear.

One passenger in particular caught her attention. Although he was dressed just like the other tourists—Bermuda shorts, floral shirt, leather sandals, Oakley sunglasses—the fact that he was traveling alone from a romantic venue made him stand out from the rest of the passengers. Also, his complexion and dark hair indicated he was from somewhere in South America, and most of the other passengers were Americans.

She checked the information and photograph on his passport and found them to be in order. She searched his duffel bag and found nothing suspicious. There was no reason to detain him. As she scanned his passport into the computer, she made sure he stood where the surveillance cameras would record his picture. Then she allowed him to pass through the gate into the main terminal. He quickly mixed with the crowd…and disappeared.

 

En route from Pittsburgh to St. Louis

Ed Burke stared thoughtfully out the small window in the executive cabin as Air Force Two cruised through the air thirty-five thousand feet above Ohio. He reminisced about his first meeting with Randolph Winston, and at the same time he wondered what would happen if he welshed on the deal. Or if that was even a possibility. He didn't reach a resolution before Ben Tobias startled him from his daydreaming.

“We'll be in St. Louis in a few minutes,” Ben advised. “Do you need anything before we land?”

Ed turned his attention away from the window. “I'm all right, Ben. Where do we go after St. Louis?”

“We'll spend the night in San Francisco, and then we have several days along the West Coast.”

“Are our California numbers still up?”

“Foster doesn't have a prayer in California,” Ben said confidently. “You're leading by 14 percentage points.”

“Good. That's good. Let me know when we're fifteen minutes out of St. Louis.”

Ben returned to the forward cabin, and Ed began to watch the campaign staffers as they scurried around the interior of the airplane, talking on wireless telephones to campaign chairpersons in Texas and California and soliciting endorsements from members of Congress. Ed watched the activity and wondered how much each endorsement cost the Federalists. One million? Two million? Senator Mulvaney from New York probably squeezed them for five million.
Thirty-four electoral votes sure are expensive
, Ed thought. He chuckled to himself and pivoted back toward the window. He really didn't care how much they paid. The Federalists had promised him the presidency, and it didn't matter to him what it cost them.

It had all started back in 1990. Ed had already distinguished himself among his colleagues in the House of Representatives. However, he was from a sparsely populated Southern state, and he knew the Democratic party leaders had no plans to put him on any national ballots. Although he aspired to the Oval Office, he saw no realistic chance of obtaining it and became frustrated.

At the pinnacle of his frustration, Ed was contacted by Randolph Winston. He agreed to travel to New York to meet with the Federalists. They told Ed they needed someone to work with them on several delicate matters but couldn't go into details. Randolph assured Ed that if he cooperated, he would be president of the United States one day.

Edward Burke didn't immediately commit to work for the Federalists. He told Randolph, Pierce, and Milton he'd have to think about it for a few days and talk with his wife. But he left New York that cold winter day knowing what his decision would be. He wanted to be president at any cost, so he sold his soul. And he thought the price was rather cheap.

What Ed Burke hungered for more than anything else was power. Ever since he'd tasted the lifestyle inside the Washington Beltway as a freshman congressman, he had wanted more. The state dinners, the trips to exotic locations, under the guise of congressional research, and the women. Young, beautiful women, who were always willing to satisfy the needs of a congressman. He knew that Millie discovered his infidelity quickly after his first tryst, but he didn't care. And Millie soon began to look the other way.

Soon after his agreement with the Federalists, money was paid to the right people, and Ed was selected as the vice-presidential running mate to presidential candidate Roger Harrison. Four years of national exposure as second-in-command would make him hard to beat in the subsequent election, the Federalists said, and they had been correct. Everything was going according to plan…

Now, as the pilot announced their descent into St. Louis, Ed spotted the Gateway Arch. In fifteen minutes he would be shaking hands with supporters—none of whom he would ever see again—who had been paid a thousand dollars each by the Federalists to be in attendance. The television cameras would capture all the festivities and broadcast them around the country on the evening news. The crowd would erupt with applause when the senator from Missouri introduced him as the next president of the United States. It would all be so beautifully orchestrated that someone might believe it was real.

 

Memphis International Airport

A Latin American man exited Northwest flight 708 from Miami at gate C-25 unnoticed. He glanced at the large round clock over the Starbucks in the concourse. It was 12:15 p.m. He'd gained an hour from Miami, so he set his watch to central time. The television monitors hanging from the ceiling in the waiting areas by each gate broadcast the same
CNN-Airport
news program as he walked up the concourse to the main terminal. He rode the moving walkway toward the ticket counters on the main floor and headed to the exit. The signs overhead pointed to a baggage-claim area down the escalators, but he had no luggage. All the supplies he needed had already been acquired, per his instructions, and were waiting for him in Memphis.

He had changed clothes in Miami, discarding the floral shirt and shorts for a black T-shirt and khaki slacks. Now he exited through the automatic sliding doors into the oppressive humidity and heat synonymous with August in Memphis. He would be glad when this contract was completed. It was hot in Colombia, but not like this.

Crossing over the taxi lane, he headed toward the parking garage, which was primarily reserved for short-term or overnight parking. He could have ridden the shuttle bus to Lot B in the long-term parking area but chose to walk instead. The fewer people he came in contact with, the better. The walk through the parking garage was not very far. He had already spotted the black Chevy S10 pickup, waiting for him in slot 17 as planned.

Glancing around quickly, he reached under the front left fender and retrieved a small metal case held in place by a magnet. Inside the case was a key to the truck, which he used to unlock the door and start the ignition. Once inside, he found a brown envelope under the front seat. Inside the envelope was a map, a picture of his mark, cash, a wireless phone, and a hotel key to room 115 at the Plantation Hotel in Brownsville, Tennessee.

Calmly he exited the parking lot, paid the toll, and merged with the traffic on the I-240 loop around Memphis. The route from the airport to his hotel was highlighted on the map in yellow. He would be at his hotel room, where the remainder of his supplies waited, in forty-five minutes.

 

The Flying J truck stop, north of Washington DC

It was just past 10:00 p.m. eastern time Monday when Dalton Miller parked his car and walked into the Flying J truck stop at the Powder Mill Road exit off I-95.

The Flying J didn't have the best food in the area, but Dalton knew he wouldn't see anyone from inside the Beltway at this greasy spoon. The sun had disappeared behind the western horizon two hours ago, and the lights inside the diner were dim. Dalton had been here many times and had grown accustomed to the sound of diesel trucks in the parking lot. This environment was perfect for his kind of work. The roar of the trucks made it impossible for someone to overhear a conversation.

An old girlfriend had put him in contact with someone from the Justice Department—a disenchanted junior attorney who was willing to talk. The attorney had agreed to meet with Dalton one time, but after that Dalton was on his own. All Dalton knew was that the attorney's name was Joe.

Dalton glanced down at his clothing. He'd purposefully dressed as though he'd just climbed down from one of the rigs idling in the parking lot. His short stature, robust waistline, jeans, and large belt buckle allowed him to blend in with the other patrons. He covered his brown hair with a white and blue Roadway Trucking cap. He knew the other patrons wouldn't notice him as he nonchalantly entered the restaurant and selected the last booth in the back.

From this vantage point he could see the parking lot through the slits in the vinyl miniblinds and also the front door of the restaurant. He removed a pack of Marlboro Light 100s from his shirt pocket and shook it gently until one cigarette slid partially out. He lit it, took one long, hard drag, and then contributed to the cloud of smoke lingering around the ceiling.

When Dalton was on his second cigarette, Joe entered the truck stop. The young attorney was easy to recognize. He was the only person in the restaurant wearing a necktie…and wringing his hands.

Dalton motioned for Joe to join him at a booth against the back wall. A waitress in a pink-and-white polyester uniform, with Betty inscribed on her silver name tag, brought two cups of coffee and disappeared.

“I can't believe I'm here talking with you,” Joe began almost before he'd taken his seat. He took one sip of the hot liquid, as if attempting to calm his nerves. “I've never done anything like this before.”

Somehow Dalton believed him. He was younger than Dalton had expected. He'd probably graduated from law school less than three years ago and still had grandiose ideas about changing the world, starting with the U.S. Justice Department.

Dalton made it easy for the young man to talk. “You don't have to do this if you don't want to.”

“I know, but I want to. I'm sick and tired of these politicians thinking they're above the law.”

It wouldn't take much to keep the attorney talking. He was ready to explode.

“I know what you mean,” Dalton encouraged. “Those guys think they're better than people like you and me. Somebody has to put a stop to it now, or it will never end.”

“You're right. That's why I'm here. I've got something that I think will help put one of those guys in his place.” Joe nervously scanned the room.

“Nobody's watching us,” Dalton assured him. “And I'm not going to tell anyone that you were here.”

Joe reached into his shirt pocket and removed two pieces of paper. He unfolded them and handed them to Dalton.

Dalton scanned through the papers before looking up at Joe. “What is this?”

“It's a copy of an internal memorandum from me to the attorney general.” Joe's tone displayed amazement at Dalton's ignorance. “It says that the merger between Apollyon Associates, Inc. and another software company should be challenged because it could create a monopoly, with too much control over end-user Internet access.”

“But how does this affect the vice president?”

“The AG told me to bury the memo because the owner of Apollyon was a friend of the vice president, and the vice president had called him to specifically request that the merger go through.”

“So the vice president used his influence with the attorney general to get a favor for his friend?”

“That's right.”

“What else do you know about Apollyon?”

“That's it. The merger was approved without any problem, and as far as I know, Apollyon has a monopoly on Internet access.”

Dalton folded the two pieces of paper and stuffed them into his shirt pocket. “You'd better get out of here before someone sees you.” He nodded his head toward the door.

Joe walked out of the Flying J with a bounce in his step, as though a burden had been lifted from his shoulders.

Dalton read through the two pages again. He wasn't sure what information he really had, but at least the memo was a start. He had to find out what he could about Apollyon Associates.